Instead Of The Midas Touch, We Infidels Have The Gigundo Booty Touch

The Gift of The Gigundo Booty manifests itself in any number of ways at La Casa De Infidel.
A minute on the lips, forever on the hips? Not at our house.
It all goes straight to our built-in, back-end, super-squishy seat cushions.
We've recently begun diversifying our Gigundo Booty portfolio by adding a free annual Gigundo Booty bonus courtesy of our local credit union.
It really isn't fair to our competition who lack the magical Gigundo Booty Touch that us Infidels have; but then the competition can sit comfortably in teeny-tiny chairs, so I guess it all balances out in the grand scheme of the universe.
See, for the second year in a row a Gigundo Booty-blessed mini-Infidel has beaten out all other contest entrants to win the top prize at the credit union.
Here's Stef looking smug with all the trappings of her stocking contest success:
(Stef is a little over 5'5 to give you an idea of how tall the stocking is)

And here's Sunbum from last year showing off the rewards one can reap when possessing an awesomely mystical power like Gigundo Booty Touch.

My girls' Gigundo Booty skills are in high demand. They have a date with Ed McMahon and the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes entry in a few weeks so you need to book them early.

*Some of the contents were duplicates of last year. For instance, we're now the proud owners of fuzzy little King Kong twins. I'm betting they'd make a great pair of ear muffs or a really fun bikini bra. Stef also got an authentic Gwen Stefani doll that came complete with her own Alice in Wonderland costume. Sometimes I think that swallowing weird potions in little bottles would explain an awful lot about Gwen and her music/stage persona.*

When Cutting Edge Indie Rock Loses All Street Cred

I've been amused beyond all measure of reason by the recent playing of hipster alterna-rock at the most unexpected and definite non-hipster places.

We went shopping at HEB grocery store on Saturday night and started laughing when we heard the latest darlings of the college music scene getting blasted over the HEB Radio speakers.

Vampire Weekend- The Kids Don't Stand A Chance

While shopping for such novelties as Jeffy (Foxworthy) Jerky and Delta Burke lingerie at Big Lots off-price store (don't ever buy food there) we were treated to the strains of Guster's Satellite mixed into a Big Lots Broadcasting set list comprising of mostly super edgy hits from superstar acts like Bernie Higgins (Sailing Away To Key Largo) and Lou Rawls (You'll Never Find).

Guster- Satellite

Poor Peter, Bjorn, and John. One day you compose a song worthy of head-bobbing, shoulder-shaking from the hippest of the hip. The next day it starts to get played over the in-store radio at the most milquetoast of places. We've heard it at both Marshall's discount clothing chain and the 99 Cents Only store.


Peter, Bjorn, And John- Young Folks

I guess 20 years from now all these songs will end up as elevator Muzak.
I need to figure out who to ask and where to apply for the in-store radio DJ job......and then I'll just wait for the music label promotion money to start rolling into my greased-up little palms.

*This Just In! We heard The Kooks getting airplay on Ross in-store radio.*

I'd Like To Dedicate A Song To The Surgical Staff Who'll Be All Up In My Business Tomorrow

At first I considered a nice Weird Al spoof for the occasion. Perhaps "Like A Surgeon" would be apropos even though really Weird Al is so flippin timeless and classic no matter the reason or the season; but instead I'm going with my final selection: Diana Ross.

Diana sums up all the meaningful things I desire to articulate when she gustily sings "Touch me in the morning......then just walk away..."

I don't really want to be touched at all, mind you. I'm not one of those kinks with a surgical fetish nor do I have to rely on my HMO to hook me up with some good touchy/feely action.

Well, normal people wouldn't give a second thought to the minor procedure I'm undergoing in the morning, but I'm not normal; I'm freaked out.

When I relayed my fears of anesthesia to the registration nurse at the hospital during my pre-op visit she simply laughed and then proceeded to ask me if I had a Living Will and if I'm an Organ Donor.

Wow, so reassuring. Yeah, I don't mind entertaining paranoid delusions of croaking on the table while the doctor harvests my plump and ripe organs like it's dollar days in the Piggly Wiggly Produce Department. I don't mind at all. Thanks registration nurse! I'm guessing you failed Compassion And Caring 101.

The best part is that I'll be working all night in 30 degree weather. Wait, no, that's not the best part. The bestest part is that the nurse admonished me with a firm "No Drinking Or Eating After Midnight Prior To Surgery" command.

She didn't specify why. Is it an instruction from The Gremlins Handbook? Will I turn into a wickedly voracious monster if I dare stuff my face past the stroke of midnight? Or is the Hospital trying to avoid another unfortunate Code Brown incident in the Operating Room? Only my physician can say for sure and I won't be seeing her until a minute before they gas me.

I'm only spending the day with the fine folks at Our Lady of Holy Moly Hospital. I'm a little hurt that they didn't want to spend the night with me, but I guess I'll get over it.

In case you're curious, we'll just categorize tomorrow's proceedings in the "Personal And Feminine In Nature" file folder.

Whoever assumed that I was going in for a sex change operation, you're wrong. I don't feel like going to all the hassle it would involve to transform this blog into The Macho, Macho Man Infidel. I'm not suffering from the heartbreak of hemorrhoidal flare-up either and I'm not getting that superfluous vaginal plastic surgery(Vagiplasty?) that's become so trendy lately.

So, if I don't see you all before Thursday, Have A Very Merry Christmas!

The Infidel Way To Deal With A Christmas Spirit That Suddenly Turns Ugly

What's more natural than taking your family on a festive holiday hay ride during the weeks leading up to Christmas?
Well, leave it to us Infidels to turn something wholesomely natural into something grotesquely unnatural.
So there we sat cheek-to-cheek on the back of a hay-stuffed trailer along with a bevy of shivering strangers.
Aside from an occasional cough or sneeze the hay ride adventure lurched forward with nary a peep.
I spontaneously tried to rally the mini-Infidels into singing some Christmas carols to break the chilled winter silence and bring cheer to our fellow passengers.
One chorus of Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer later, I sullenly pulled my knit cap down to cover my flushed face as the entire trailer of sour-faced people glared at us.
I didn't realize that we had stumbled onto the "Silent Night/Quiet Night/Shut The Freak Up Night" hay ride tour.
Hey, getting your heiny stabbed through your britches with a thousand points of dried-out hay isn't pleasant for anyone but we must think of our brave hay ride pioneer ancestors and how they soldiered on with a song on their lips and bugs in their teeth.
As though our failed attempt at turning a lackluster hay ride into a cheery Hay Ride:The Musical! event wasn't mortifying enough, then my second oldest mini-Infidel, Stef had to act like she was a couple jingle bells short of a Jingle Bell Choir by making some very oddball Christmas music comments.
Stef actually remarked out loud that she gets The Carol Of The Bells and Tubular Bells mixed up.
Okay, one tune rejoices in the coming of the Savior while the other one provides an ominous backdrop for a demonic exorcism.
Yeah, I certainly can see how those two songs can be confused.
I may have to one day explain to Stef that Chuck Berry's rowdy sing-a-long "My Ding-A-Ling" isn't really about bells on a string........ No, it really isn't. Sorry if I ruined the illusion for you.
So, while still laughing at Stef, the rest of us started dreaming up a collaborative Medley Of Bells to accompany any nice Christmas exorcism. A tune soaring and dramatic enough to make old Ebenezer Scrooge smile perniciously as he gets the drop on his visiting spirits with a strategically placed Ghostbuster brand ghost trap now with ectoplasm inhibitors.
Ebenezer Part 2:Revisited.....He Ain't Fraid' Of No Ghost(s)
We got as far as combining AC/DC's Hell's Bells, Tubular Bells and the always creepy Michelle, My Belle before we knew we had hit upon a Christmas Exorcism music gold mine!
And if that fails to vanquish evil spirits, you can always use the special demon-smashing Silver Bell included with every Bell Medley CD purchase.
Ooops, Up, Side Yo Head, scary possessed thingie!
Just hear those demon slay bells jingling ring-ting-tingling too. That's right it's lovely weather for a nice exorcism with you.
*The official Bell Medley Pack may also be used to ward off annoying family, co-workers, and bill collectors, too;but only on Christmas. Product expires December 26.*

I Do Not Condone The Mocking Of Religious Leaders In Any Way, Shape, Or Form.....Unless It's Really, Really Funny

JOEL OSTEEN'S TEETH WHITENING KIT (YOUR BEST TEETH NOW!)-3:06
I don't know how this young kid managed to master Joel Osteen's corn pone accent, aw-shucks mannerisms, and cheeseball dialogue, but he did--and he does a fantastic job.

Delta Burke Hates Me: She Tried To Strangulate My Lady Bits Last Week!

Be warned: Just because someone's a washed-up television star from the 80's doesn't mean they should be handed complete creative control over their own intimate apparel line.
But, if they did, we would have seen undergarment products from former big-name stars lining the shelves of department store underwear sections a long time ago.
How about Gary Coleman's Big Boy Briefs? Or Shelley Long's Long Johns? Or maybe a nice pair of Joan Collins' Cougar Thongs.

Okay, so while shopping at Big Lots discount store in pursuit of the perfect birthday present for my friend Carrot Jello, I found a 2-pack value box of Delta Burke brand girdles on sale.
Really, is there any better way to tell someone how much they mean to you than sending them a couple of lace-front girdles?
The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Girdles: A Movie For The Less Physically Fit.
Since Carrot and I wear the same size, I figured that I'd keep one and send the other to her as a kind of gut-minimizing, fat pouch-eliminating take on the old Best Friends heart necklaces we all coveted during our schoolgirl days. Although at no time did I consider writing "Best" on one girdle and "Friends" on the other.
A girdle is the perfect gift of friendship. It literally girds you up when you're feeling down. Girdle Twin Power.....ACTIVATE!
Just so you know: One girdle's black and one girdle's ivory. Kind of like a Girdle Yin&Yang.

Then suddenly, before I could ship the girdle to Carrot's house, a most unfortunate girdle tragedy struck the Infidel home.
You never think it can happen to you.......
On the day of Papi's company Christmas Party I couldn't find my steadfast and true girdle sidekick anywhere and trust me, I freakin needed it so I could squeeze into my dress.
I searched high and low for it. I even commissioned our dog Reagan to go on a girdle rescue mission since he has fantastic sniffy capabilities. But it was all to no avail.
Duct taping fat rolls to smooth them out doesn't work as well as I thought it would.
In desperation I turned to Delta Burke to solve my girdle emergency.
Initially the ivory-colored girdle slid right on with ease but then, much to my chagrin, it stopped somewhere between my navel and lower belly pooch.
I read the package. It did not mention anything about it being a pack of low-rise girdle bikinis. And yet there I was, standing in something that looked like and pinched like an itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny little Delta Burke bikini.
I may be grossly rotund but my pubic area is not where I need to focus slimming efforts.
The thought flashed into my mind of Papi's co-workers gossipping about me and saying things like: "Wow, Papi's wife has the most toned and svelte pubic area I've ever seen. It's a shame the rest of her is so hefty."
In disgust, I hurled the hoo-hoo oppressing garment across the room.

My mom had a similar experience with Delta Burke.
She purchased a Delta Burke brassiere in a slightly larger size to ensure a good fit.
The bra not only refused to cup her bosoms properly, it also had the audacity to mock my mom as she futilely struggled and strained and grunted to hook the tiny clasps in the back.

I speculate that Delta is a fat lady who secretly hates other fat ladies. She probably takes out her aggression on the portly population by manufacturing undergarments in smaller sizes than what the label says so that the buyer will feel like a total blob of billowing blubber when they try to wear it.
Delta is banking on the fact that the low-rent stores who carry her inferior shrinky-dinky apparel don't have dressing rooms. See, then large-and-in-charge women won't know the true discomfort and trickery Delta is serving up until they get home and find themselves totally compressed by the vacuum-sealed Delta girdles.
They'll undoubtedly feel too fat and ashamed to return the stuff because they don't want to have to recite the sad tale to the customer service manager about how their big butt refused to be harnessed and confined into such a ridiculously small polyester prison.
Brilliant marketing strategy!

Delta Burke should go work for the people over at the Just My Size clothing manufacturer. She's had a lot of practice selling stuff that really is just her size and her size only.
But one thing's for certain, Delta Burke may hate me but I hate that panty-pushing hussy even more.
From this day forth, we are enemies.
Delta will never be allowed into the sanctity of my underwear drawer ever again.

Houston Ninja Deodorant: Strong Enough For Chuck Norris But Made For A Ninja!

I walked into the kitchen yesterday to see the eldest of my mini-Infidels, Sunbum, standing there draped over the counter clad totally in black from head to toe.

She wore her favorite black basketball shorts coupled with a solid black T-shirt. Black anklet socks adorned her feet while her nails gleamed bright with glossy black fingernail polish. And to finish off the look, she perched a black knit cap atop her pony-tailed head.

I remarked that she must have joined the Houston Ninja Squad because only a Houston Ninja struggling with our extreme temperatures and high humidity would think to eschew the stuffy traditional ninja gear to adopt black shorts and T-shirts as an official uniform.

Sunbum just laughed.

It's no good to camouflage yourself to become one with the shadows during the black of night if your prey can SMELL your stanky self coming at them from a mile away. I think that's something like Lesson #420 in the Ninja Handbook.

Oy There Matey....We Gonna Party Like It Was 1980

Know what I love and miss? The synthesizer-driven music of the 80's that always seemed so carefree and peppy.

Pop music and fashion are such cyclical affairs--usually averaging a recycled trend every 2 decades. Well, it's been over 20 years and the 80's sound is re-emerging in a big way.

Sadly, so are stirrup pants, leg warmers, checkered Vans, bubble skirts, and shirts with faux vests sewn onto the front. I witnessed all of those fashion atrocities at the mall last week along with Kangaroo shoes (Remember those? They have a useful zippered pocket on the sides.) and roving herds of wannabe punks wearing Sex Pistol T-shirts and fluorescent-tipped mohawks.

I have a love affair with all things Australian that I can barely comprehend let alone articulate. I love their culture, history, landscape, and most of all, their music. Not coincidentally, I've discovered two fantastic 80's-inspired groups via XM Satellite Radio, and both of whom hail from Australia.

Empire Of The Sun channels a distinct OMD/Psychedelic Furs vibe while Cut Copy could pass themselves off as New Order's kid brothers.

If you need me, I'll be here dutifully pegging my turquoise acid wash jeans and layering up multi-colored socks.

EMPIRE OF THE SUN- WALKING ON A DREAM (3:20)

CUT COPY- HEARTS ON FIRE (3:42)

HERE'S THE OFFICIAL VIDEO FOR THE CUT COPY SONG. YOUTUBE DISABLED THE EMBEDDING FEATURE.

Evidence That Generation X-ers Are Aging......

I spotted this fiber-enriched version of Pop Tarts at Target last week and realized that it just makes sense that as my peer group ages we're going to co-opt our happiest childhood comfort foods by pumping them full of health-altering additives.
We're repentant junk food junkies who've decided that if we can't stuff our faces full of non-nutritional, sugar-coated morsels of bliss anymore then neither can you.
We always were kind of narcissistic like that.

Fiber One Pop Tarts: So infused with bowel-cleansing nutrients they should probably be called POOP Tarts!

So, what familiar favorites are slated for health-benefit modification next?
Osteoporosis supplements in our Yoo-Hoo chocolate drink?
Anti-Aging serum added to Lucky Charms cereal? That's certainly ironic. Why not just indulge in Peter Pan peanut butter? It's the same difference.
Maybe a few Skin moisturizer vitamins thrown into the stretched and leathery Fruit Roll-Ups brand? They can add a tag line about how only fruit should get all dried out and dried up.
Appetite suppressant in Capri Sun juice pouches? That would make a nice commercial:
"Now Capri Sun Can Help You Lose Weight: Suck It Up Now So You Don't Have To Suck It In Later!"
How about reformulating those processed Slim Jim meat sticks with some male enhancement additives?
Of course they'd have to call it something else then.
I hereby re-christen the newly fortified Slim Jim's as Thick Dic.........uhhhh, I mean Micks. Yeah, Thick Micks. I like the sound of that.
I'm judging from the amount of Cialis/Viagra/Enzyte ads I hear on talk radio that stiffiness is a valuable commodity that's slowly ebbing away in our modern society.
Perhaps we should throw male enhancement stuff into Push-Up Pops and maybe Ding Dongs, too.
They already have a fantastic name custom for this kind of marketing gimmick.

Thanks Generation X geniuses. I knew you wouldn't be content to just let us grow old gracefully!

Wanted: A Large Dose Of Anti-Psychotic Meds To Treat The Houston Weather

Come on, Houston. Enough of this weather craziness already. Real life shouldn't be like a Katy Perry song.
"You're hot and you're cold, you're yes and you're no......"
Yes, well if you're a resident of the greater Houston area you've been both hot and cold in a short 24-hour period.
Yesterday me and my mini-Infidels took our noble crotch-sniffing wonderdog, Reagan out into the balmy 80 degree day for a walk.
It was so freakin hot that some of us ended up diving into the neighborhood pool to cool off. Yeah, warm enough to go swimming in the middle of winter!
Not 12 hours later the temperatures dropped a mind-numbing (and butt-numbing) 50 degrees.
Are you rubbing your eyes because you think you must have read that wrong?
You didn't. The temps plummeted to the freezing point last night. It was accompanied by sleet and drizzling rain because apparently cold weather doesn't like to travel alone.
Sweating to shivering in the blink of an eye. Shorts and T-shirts to electric blankets and turtleneck sweaters. Sleeping on my own side of the bed with a fan to cool off to trying to curl up with Papi for some much-needed warmth in one crazy, mixed-up, discombobulated December day.
The drearily overcast and freezing cold day gave way to SNOW this afternoon.
SNOW in Houston! And not just a minute of light flurries either. It snowed big white chunks for over an hour.
I've seen mental illness up close and personal. And while I'm not a licensed mental health professional I think I'm qualified enough to diagnose Houston weather as having a severe onset of multiple personality disorder with a touch of schizophrenia thrown in there just so it would make a more convincing Lifetime movie event.
Maybe Sally Fields can add another award to her trophy case by taking on the starring role of an emotionally traumatized Houston weather system struggling to decide if it wants to be good or bad......hot or cold.....light or dark.
I wouldn't bother watching such a film. I'm LIVING it.

I Stink At Socialism

I'll never be a good little Socialist.......or witty conversationalist......or silver-tongued small-talker oozing forth a sanguine affability.
Cheeze-its, after the awkward banter I've stumbled through this past week I'd be seated square in the middle of the slow table inside the Socialism Special Ed. class.
Yeah, I know what the true definition of Socialism, but I always thought it would be more aptly applied to those whose oratory skills have made them the Master Of Mingle at parties and social events.
So, I dropped off my 7-year old son at a birthday party for one of his classmates on Saturday. The birthday girl is half-Chinese and elected to go with a Snake Party theme since that's her Zodiac sign.
Fine. In the meantime I took the rest of the mini-Infidels to the corner Church where they featured a live Jerusalem-styled marketplace, camel/donkey rides, and snow pumped in for the kids to play in.
While there, I stepped in camel crap and then followed up the olfactory horrors by sampling some very stinky cheese at Kroger's.
I'm grateful for the poop protection that my closed-toe shoes and jeans had to offer. Can you imagine waltzing through a field of feces wearing your toe sandals and ground-dragging robes like in the times of Jesus?
Clumps of Camel Crap: You're soaking in it!
When we went to pick up my son I was wholly unprepared for the gregarious father who greeted me at the door and insisted on getting into my personal space to show me some party pictures he snapped on his Blackberry.
See, I have to psyche myself up for these kind of encounters. It can't just happen without me mentally preparing and rehearsing otherwise I just ramble on nervously about weird topics.
I can sympathize with the Allman Brothers for I too was born a Ramblin' (Wo)Man.
Not only did I stink at trying to attempt a normal conversation with this outgoing dad, I also just plain stunk.
I silently hoped that maybe he'd been involved in an unfortunate skunk wrangling accident in his youth and had to have his sense of smell permanently removed.
Without meaning to, I used my stinky cheese mouth to discuss the party happenings.....and was horrified at the snakey sexual euphemisms that inadvertently slipped out.
The more I tried to regain my composure and steer the discussion away from snakes, the more I failed and blushed redder and redder.
I finished up my Tour de Nerd speech by discussing racism in the classroom.
I don't even know where that came from but at least it wasn't about snakes.......or anything sexual.
I could tell that this dad was real impressed with me as he stealthily made his escape and practically ran to the kitchen.
I'll never be able to ascertain if it was my physical stink that drove him off or my mental stink.
I'm suddenly dreading the Classroom Christmas Party in 2 weeks.
I need a stunt double to handle the perilous nature of socializing for me.

Ross: You Stole My Chubby Heart With Your Chubby-Chasin Ways

Oh Ross, how can I ever possibly thank you properly for all that you've done for me?

Yesterday, I needed it. I needed it real bad. And you gave it to me!

It's no secret that something's been missing from my life for a very long time. Something that's left me feeling incomplete and exposed.

Until yesterday's fateful Saturday morn, I despaired of ever finding one who could fulfill my exacting demands and selfish desires as well as appreciating my cascading rolls of fat that I coquettishly like to refer to as "lovely lady lumps."

And then came you, Ross.....beautiful, beautiful, you.

For years I've tried desperately to deny how special you are, even going out of my way to distance myself by speaking ill of you in front of friends and family. I even remarked that I wouldn't ever visit with you or see you again-we both know I'm a dirty liar. Truth is, I just can't stay away from you, my dearest Ross. You're just so inviting. I'm no longer ashamed to let everyone know the deep and abiding love we share with one another.

Despite having to pay you for your services, Ross, that doesn't cheapen our relationship--not for one instant! You were worth every penny, too!

Thanks for providing me with all-day comfort at a low, low price. Not to mention how you hug my curvy hippo hips without ever doing anything rude or untoward like chafing my thighs or invading my butt crack.

I hope I don't wear you out too soon! I have a habit of doing that to the ones I love.

My husband, Papi told me I'm not allowed to visit you until next month. Blah, blah.....something about finances and budgets.....blah, blah. He just doesn't understand us and the gravitational pull we have for each other, you know?

I'm sure I can break away for a heart-pounding rendezvous with you sometime in early January. Keep the light on for me, okay?

All My Love,
Elasticwaistbandlady (Who Finally Has Some Comfy Non-Elasticwaistband Jeans!)

P.S. Ross, could you please tell your business associate friends that fat ladies don't necessarily like all of their pants/jeans to be freakin pedal pusher capris or made of knit cotton--especially in the winter. If we were truly pedal pushers-as the misnomer garment name implies-we wouldn't need to be purchasing a size XXX, now would we?

All I Want For Christmas Is Some Orangey Front Teeth.....

This is the most fantastic product ever made and marketed. Ever.
Guess what just knocked out an adult-sized Big Wheel on my Christmas list to take the number one spot?
Whoever buys this for me can fully expect a heapin' debt of gratitude along with a thank you note written entirely in orange Cheeto dust.

CH-CH-CH-CHEETO PET! (:31)

My Daughter: Future Creator Of The Council For Stink Prevention

I work out in the pseudo-country on Mondays/Tuesdays

I usually drag along the least resistant mini-Infidel to work slave labor for slave wages enjoy the fresh country air and scenic beauty.

I refer to it as the pseudo-country because while many of the farmhouse-styled homes have lots of acreage with big red barns and painted ponies dotting their sprawling fields, they still live in a deed restriction-controlled neighborhood surrounded by modern conveniences.

It's not country living if you can walk to the grocery store for a gallon of milk instead of being forced to massage Ol' Bessie to give up her last lactating drop.

So, the pseudo-country--they're city enough to have their very own Chik-Fil-A drive-thru but too rural to enjoy the privilege of the city sewer system.

I feel bad for pseudo-country kids. They don't even have a conveniently located curbside hole to toss their bleeding-with-red-ink schoolwork failures into like us city folk.

So, in case you haven't had the odorific pleasures of touring an area that's relying on septic tanks during a muggy day or in the aftermath of torrential rains, let me just sum up the experience for you: It stinks. It stinks real bad.

We had a high of 80 degrees on Tuesday. Crazy, I know. Why don't you and Mr. Global Warming go to the Conspiracy Corner to discuss it at length?

Anyway, it was pretty stenchy.

And then my brilliant second-oldest mini-Infidel burst forth with the most ingenious piece of stank combativeness: Utilize the city mosquito control trucks to spray heavy doses of Febreze air sanitizing mist into the feces-fragranced countryside.

Yeah, she superseded my own brilliant stench-fighting plan.

I guess she's right. It really would be impractical to try to plug in a million and a half vanilla-scented Renuzit Plug-In room deodorizers down at the Power Plant.

If My Mexi-Man Papi Had His Way We Would All Spell People As "PEE-PLE"

A few months ago my mom invited us Infidels out to see a live performance of the perenially perky UP WITH PEOPLE group.

Studies show that the International cast members who comprise UP WITH PEOPLE have been directly infused with large doses of sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows everything in addition to a spoonful of sugar thrown in for good measure-- it makes it all go down in the most delightful way.

When I was but a wee young Infidel lass, my mother always took me to the UP WITH PEOPLE concerts whenever they hit Houston. Some kids dream of running away to join the circus. Not me. I fantasized of one day getting some fancy veneers and joining the photogenic UP WITH PEOPLE crew. I yearned to be one of them-- blinding audiences worldwide with my dazzling white toothy smile and amazing jive-talking jazz hands.

Alas, by the time I hit 12 I realized that I wasn't at all cute, I couldn't sing, I couldn't dance, I couldn't stomp out a rhythm even if my very life depended on me stomping an emergency Morse code, I looked horrible in brightly colored cardigans and khakis, and I definitely wasn't perky.

I would have been better qualified for a humanity-hating production of DOWN WITH PEOPLE.

Anyway, aside from a few vague and disinteresting dialogue moments steeped in Utopian and "It Takes A Village" blah blah, the show was suprisingly good. The mini-Infidels really loved it and clamored to go get their pictures taken with as many UP WITH PEOPLE participants as they could.

I showed Papi the pictures when we got home. Despite the fact that UP WITH PEOPLE had many cast members originating from Mexico and the fact that they tour extensively there, Papi hadn't ever heard of them.

His quizzical response to the first picture I snapped-showing the group's name and logo-left me gasping for air from laughing so hard.

Papi said: "What exactly is U PEE WITH PEOPLE??!!??"

Here's a sampling of the UP WITH PEOPLE performers in action at last year's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade:

You Decide: Extreme Cheapness Or Extreme Eco-Conservationism?

I bought these rolls for the paltry price of $1.00/dozen on the clearance bakery racks at the grocery store.

Yeah, they may be just one step away from entering a crusty state of Crouton-dom, but you can't beat the price tag.

That's one small step for stale bread items......one giant step for the Infidel Family budget.

Nothing is too good for my family.

Except paying retail price for bread products, apparently.

After polishing off the rolls, I couldn't bear to throw away the sturdy aluminum baking pans they came in.

I could have a little Greenpeace member living inside me, fighting to get out. Or maybe I was blindingly hypnotized by the shiny, shiny reflection beaming off the silvery surface........or it could be the temporary loss of oxygen flow to the brain when I about choked to death on a crumbly piece of dried-out roll...........but whatever the reason I promptly cleaned out the baking pans and stored them for future use.

These little beauties have served me well through a Donut Muffin baking frenzy. They also lovingly housed my traditional Thanksgiving rolls this year.

I almost feel like I can never throw them away now we've become so attached.

My mom got a cast iron skillet set and some antiques as her family inheritance.

My kids will likely receive some well-loved and well-worn aluminum muffin pans when I die.

They'll undoubtedly reminisce fondly about their wonderful mother and how she combined a legacy of cheapness, recycling, and family heirlooms all into one cherished gift.

It's a good thing I have 6 aluminum pans to share equally so that none of my six mini-Infidels will have to launch a court fight against each other.